CHAPTER XXXII

WILDERNESS

When he had read this note, Shelton put it down beside
his sleeve-links on his dressing table, stared in
the mirror at himself, and laughed. But his lips
soon stopped him laughing; he threw himself upon his
bed and pressed his face into the pillows. He
lay there half-dressed throughout the night, and when
he rose, soon after dawn, he had not made his mind
up what to do. The only thing he knew for certain
was that he must not meet Antonia.

At last he penned the following:

I have had a sleepless night with toothache, and think
it best to run up to the dentist at once. If
a tooth must come out, the sooner the better.

He addressed it to Mrs. Dennant, and left it on his
table. After doing this he threw himself once
more upon his bed, and this time fell into a doze.

He woke with a start, dressed, and let himself quietly
out. The likeness of his going to that of Ferrand
struck him. “Both outcasts now,”
he thought.

He tramped on till noon without knowing or caring
where he went; then, entering a field, threw himself
down under the hedge, and fell asleep.

He was awakened by a whirr. A covey of partridges,
with wings glistening in the sun, were straggling
out across the adjoining field of mustard. They
soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges,
and began to call upon each other.

Some cattle had approached him in his sleep, and a
beautiful bay cow, with her head turned sideways,
was snuffing at him gently, exhaling her peculiar
sweetness. She was as fine in legs and coat as
any race-horse. She dribbled at the corners of
her black, moist lips; her eye was soft and cynical.
Breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field,
rubbing dry grasp-stalks in his fingers, Shelton had
a moment’s happiness—­the happiness
of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements
of the fields. Why could not human beings let
their troubles be as this cow left the flies that
clung about her eyes? He dozed again, and woke
up with a laugh, for this was what he dreamed:

He fancied he was in a room, at once the hall and
drawing-room of some country house. In the centre
of this room a lady stood, who was looking in a hand-glass
at her face. Beyond a door or window could be
seen a garden with a row of statues, and through this
door people passed without apparent object.

Suddenly Shelton saw his mother advancing to the lady
with the hand-glass, whom now he recognised as Mrs.
Foliot. But, as he looked, his mother changed
to Mrs. Dennant, and began speaking in a voice that
was a sort of abstract of refinement. “Je
fais de la philosophic,” it said; “I take
the individual for what she’s worth. I
do not condemn; above all, one must have spirit!”
The lady with the mirror continued looking in the
glass; and, though he could not see her face, he could
see its image-pale, with greenish eyes, and a smile
like scorn itself. Then, by a swift transition,
he was walking in the garden talking to Mrs. Dennant.